Seventy Years And Then Goodbye

Seventy years.

That was how long they had been married.

Yesterday, I watched the news of Tun Dr Siti Hasmah’s passing and saw her husband, Tun Dr Mahathir Mohamad, grieving beside her.

He is 101 years old.

And suddenly, politics didn’t seem important anymore.

There was just an elderly husband who had lost his wife. And, she lived up to a 100. 

A woman who had been beside him for seventy years. I found myself feeling unexpectedly emotional.

Perhaps because there is something deeply moving about a lifetime shared with another person.

Seventy years means knowing someone through so many versions of themselves.

Young. Older. Busy. Tired.

Happy.Worried.Celebrating. Struggling.

It means watching children grow, families change, seasons come and seasons go.

It means accumulating thousands of ordinary moments that nobody else could fully know.

And then one day, you wake up and the person who has been part of all those years is no longer there.

I don’t think we talk enough about this part of growing old.

We celebrate longevity.

A hundred years sounds extraordinary.

But living a long life also means eventually having to say goodbye to many people you love.

And perhaps that is why seeing him cry touched me. It reminded me that age does not make us immune to loss.

It doesn’t make goodbye easier.

We can live for a hundred years and still be someone’s child. 

Someone’s parent.

Someone’s husband. 

Someone’s wife.

Someone’s best friend.

And when that person leaves, we can still feel small and lost.

It also brought my own mother to mind.

Grief does that.

Sometimes another person’s loss opens a little door inside us and suddenly someone we have been carrying quietly in our hearts comes walking through.

A memory. A voice. A laugh.

A silly story we haven’t thought about for months.

And for a moment, they are right there again.

Maybe that is what remains after someone leaves us. Not the number of years. Not the dates. Not even the photographs.

But the little things that became part of us without us realising it.

The way they laughed. The way they called our name.The things they always said. The stories we heard a hundred times.

The ordinary moments that, only later, become extraordinary.

So perhaps today, while the people we love are still here, we should pay attention.

Sit a little longer. Listen a little more.

Have the conversation.

Share the laugh.

Make the cup of chai.

Because one day, we may discover that the moments we thought were ordinary were actually the pieces of a lifetime.

Seventy years.

And then goodbye.

Perhaps the greatest gift is not knowing exactly how long we have. Perhaps it is simply being present for the time we do have.

And loving while we are still here. 🤍

While The Door Is Still Open

 None of us know.

We don’t know what tomorrow will bring.

We don’t know what the world will look like a hundred years from now. And none of us can imagine what Earth, humanity or life itself might look like a thousand years from today.

That is both fascinating and heartbreaking.

I recently watched a documentary about a family who chose to have their daughter cryopreserved after her death, holding on to the possibility that one day, science might allow her to return to the world.

Her father said that even if it took a thousand years, he would have no regrets.

And then he said something that stayed with me:

Who knows… perhaps there will even be a time machine by then.

I loved his determination. Not because he knew it would work.

He didn’t. He simply refused to close the door.

Perhaps that is what hope sometimes looks like. Not certainty. Not a promise.

Not even a reasonable probability.

Just the decision to leave a possibility open.

Of course, there is another side to this.

A thousand years is beyond anything we can truly comprehend.

Will our civilisation still exist?

Will the world look anything like the one we know?

Will science have advanced beyond anything we can imagine?

Will anyone even remember the people who are making these decisions today?

No one alive now can answer those questions. And perhaps that is the heartbreaking part of being human.

We live our lives as though the future is waiting for us. We make plans. We postpone things. We assume there will be more time.

But there are no guarantees.

We don’t know how many ordinary mornings we have left with someone we love. We don’t know which conversation will be our last. We don’t know what tomorrow will take away or what it might unexpectedly bring.

So, perhaps we don’t need to know.

Perhaps we simply need to keep the doors open where we can.

To love while we have the chance.

To say what needs to be said.

To make the memories we keep postponing.

To leave room for possibilities we cannot yet see.

Because none of us knows what the future holds. And perhaps that uncertainty is exactly why the present matters so much.

We cannot guarantee tomorrow.

But we are here today.

And while the door is still open, perhaps we should step through it.

And live. ❤️

Just Love

Sometimes, a place can hold more memories than we realise.

This morning, I went to see my doctor. 

My half yearly routine check up. 

Every time I go to my doctor’s clinic, I can still picture my late mom sitting in a wheelchair at her favorite spot, waiting for her turn. 

She would usually protest. 

“I can walk, I can walk…”

And I would insist that she use the wheelchair, especially as she became weaker over the years. 

She had lived with an old leg injury from a freak accident many years ago and one leg was shorter than the other. We even had her shoes adjusted so that one was slightly higher and she could walk more comfortably.

Some days she would agree to the wheelchair. Other days, she would insist on walking slowly. That was my mom. 😊

And as I was sitting in that clinic this morning, I sometimes remember all her little observations.

If I was looking at my phone:

“It’s bad for your eyes. Put the phone away.”

If my hair was loose:

“Tie up your hair.”

And if I became too chatty with the nurse:

“Don’t keep talking to her. She has lots of work to do.”

Meanwhile, the nurse and I would be happily chatting away. 😂😂😂

Then, inevitably:

“Go and eat something. You haven’t had your breakfast.”

There is a little café on the same floor and some days my mom and I would have toast and tea together. 

Usually, after seeing the doctor, while waiting for the pharmacy to dispense her medicines, we would have an early lunch. I loved watching her eat as my mom rarely ate out, so those little meals together were special to me.

At the time, they were simply ordinary days. A wheelchair. A clinic. Toast and tea. Waiting for medicine. A little scolding.

A little laughter. A meal together.

But now, I realise those ordinary moments were filled with something extraordinary.

Love.

My mom’s love was overflowing.

It wasn’t always expressed in grand gestures. Often, it sounded like reminders, observations, little arguments and endless concern.

Did I eat?

Was I resting?

Was I taking care of myself?

Was I talking too much?

Was my hair tied up? 😂❤️

It was her way of loving me.

And perhaps it took the years I spent with her, especially during the later years, for me to fully understand just how deep that love was.

My mom is no longer here.

The house where she spent her last years is quiet now. The room is empty.

And sometimes, when I visit the clinic without her, I can almost feel her presence beside me. 

I miss her terribly. But beneath the missing, there is something else….

Gratitude.

Because, what a blessing it was to receive a love like hers. If there is ever another life, another chance, another beginning, I know what I would choose….

I would choose her again.

I would want her to be my mom again.

Because some loves don’t simply become memories when someone leaves us. They become part of who we are.

And hers…was just love.

Overflowing, never-ending, an unforgettable love. ❤️🙏🏻